


The Other Shoe

by thewaitwasworthitlove



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mrs Hudson knows all, Pining Sherlock, Unrequited Love, but not really, post wedding, sees all, the great oracle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1837696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaitwasworthitlove/pseuds/thewaitwasworthitlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only John Watson would manage to have a murder at his wedding.</p><p>Only Sherlock Holmes would manage to be more shattered than crystal dropped on concrete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Shoe

**Author's Note:**

> wait for the other shoe to drop (Fig.): To wait for the inevitable next step or the final conclusion.

               Mrs. Hudson was eventually the one at the wedding who’d tutted and fretted until one of the caterer’s brought her a small hand held brush and dust pan so she could clean up the shattered champagne flute. Sherlock, John, and Mary had all dashed from the room in a blur. Only John Watson would have a murderer at his wedding.

* * *

 

               Sherlock had left early, slipping into his Belstaff and knotting the familiar scarf around his throat, ignoring just how much it felt like a noose, like a choke chain. That’s how it would be from now on, he supposed. That would be his role. The family pet, fun for parties and get-togethers. Watch him do a trick or two and then shoo him away when he scratched at the furniture or snapped at a dangled hand.

               The door to 221 B shut more firmly behind him than Sherlock had ever remembered. The flat had been different without John, but now he realized that would be its permanent state of being. Until now, his brain had been tricking itself into thinking this was all temporary. John would come back. Sherlock shook his head and took off his outerwear. This wasn’t like John stopping off at the Tesco to get milk or leaving in a huff because Sherlock had once again said something so ghastly he couldn’t bear to be in the same space as him. John was married now. There was no going back to the way things were.

               Carefully, carefully, carefully, he went to the kitchen, putting the kettle on the hob and digging around in one of the junk drawers. Finally, he located the cigarettes he’d hidden there years ago. They were stale. Sherlock hardly noticed, smoking three in the amount of time it took the kettle to boil. His hands trembled slightly as he poured the steaming water over the teabag, letting it steep.

               He grabbed the mug, walking to the window in the living room and leaning against the window and looking out over this little forgotten corner of Westminster. He felt hollowed out. He’d eaten breakfasts with his brother countless times over the years. It was a ritual neither of them would own, those Tuesday morning breakfasts. Mycroft had always had an affinity for grapefruit and Sherlock had always winced at the sound of Mycroft scraping out one of the sections of the halved fruit. He felt like that now, every promise every oath that had fallen from John’s mouth digging in a little more until he was sure his heart had been wrenched out chunk by chunk with melon spoons. There was nothing left now, just the rind.

               Isn’t that what he’d always wanted? Hadn’t he always wanted this numbness? How idiotic. He’d had no idea what he’d been wishing for. Anything was better than this, this hell without fire, this purgatory without promise of salvation. He wanted to buckle against the pain, rail against the rending of his heart, but years of monkish self-discipline and Iron-clad stiff upper lip stayed his hands, quailed his misery to the point it was stifling. He could feel the liquid melancholy roiling in his stomach, ice cold. Shouldn’t there be fury? Should there be rabid indignation? No, not for him, not this time. 

               The mug in his hands had cooled considerably, and he lifted it to his lips. It still scalded his tongue, but Sherlock hardly noticed. He drank and thought. Tea, he realized too late, was a poor decision. A sip and a memory of John laughing in the downstairs stairwell. Another gulp and the sensation of John’s hand against his knee as he drunkenly tried to regain his balance. A draft and John’s voice in the receiver of his cell phone as he stood on a ledge.

“ _No one could be that clever.”_

_“You could.”_

               The tea cup crashed against the mirror over the fireplace, both breaking spectacularly. His hands couldn’t stop shaking now, tears burning swaths down his cheeks. He finally felt on fire, but his teeth chattered as though he’d just took a February dive in the Thames. He felt as though he was suffocating, choking on all the moments he’d bit back the words. Sherlock Holmes said whatever came to mind. How ironic his undoing would be the only words he never could bring himself to say. He tore at the creamy waistcoat, ripping at the tie as buttons flew from him. Mindlessly, he kicked off his shoes and staggered his way to the musty, red Chippendale chair. The shards of mirrored glass and porcelain under his feet, cutting them raw, hardly mattered now. He curled into an impossibly tight ball, his cheek against the rough upholstery as agony finally took its grip.

* * *

 

               Sherlock had forgotten his violin. Greg Lestrade, the love, had noticed it and pointed it out to Mrs. Hudson. She’d watched with somber eyes as Sherlock had looked around the room from the center of the dance floor and decided he was no longer needed. She’d watched John Watson’s eyes follow his back with every retreating step, blinking rapidly a few times before shooting Mary a beaming smile. If it didn’t quite reach his eyes, Mrs. Hudson doubted Mary noticed. She’d thanked Detective Lestrade kindly and took the instrument, careful not to damage it. Her hip twinged painfully as she made her way up the stairs to the flat.

               “Dear, you forgot your—“ She stopped, the wracked sobs coming from the man’s lips enough to cut her words off. Silently this time, Mrs. Hudson located the broom and the dustpan, making short work of the glittering shards. Her hand threaded through the soft curls, and she doubted he even knew she was here, gone off somewhere else, only the misery staying behind. Maybe he was in that mind palace he always talked about. Wherever his brilliant mind had gone for now, she hoped it was a happy place. One filled with those small private smiles she’d seen a hundred times, those careless touches that had always crossed the line of friendship. She hoped he was laughing, bright eyes gleaming into ones as dark as a navy midnight.

Only John Watson would manage to have a murder at his wedding.

Only Sherlock Holmes would manage to be more shattered than crystal dropped on concrete. 


End file.
